


Sentiment. Attachment.

by Minkey222



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, John has his head up his arse, John is a Bit Not Good, Mary Dies, Season/Series 04, Sherlock Gets It Wrong, Sherlock Gets Shot, Sherlock is a guilty bunny, The Six Thatchers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkey222/pseuds/Minkey222
Summary: Closer than they thought they were, before she fell to the floor. Something hit him. Not again- no, he can’t do this again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Paula Rushing, who commented this brilliant idea on another season 4 story a wrote a couple of days ago. I changed the idea a little bit but it's basically the same. I just thought that Mary, having had the bullet go straight through her would have only a minuscule chance of survival. I thought it would be fun to have John feel hella guilty because he ignored Sherlock and then he was like dying or something.

Mary jumped in front of him, of course- sentiment, attachment. He’d been getting better at that, hadn’t he? Make your death mean something. She felt guilty, that’s why she did it. Sentiment, attachment. Damn Mary, why? The shot was clear and rang prolonged in his ears, dancing on his eardrums. The bullet hit flesh, Mary. Of course, it did. She fell to the ground. The ‘drip, drip’ of her blood adding to the macabre symphony playing in his head. The bullet wasn’t done, though.

Closer than they thought they were, before she fell to the floor. Something hit him. Not again- no, he can’t do this again. Drip, drip, Sherlock, drip, drip. Think. Don’t fall. Drip, drip. Times going slowly, slower now and changing every second, every heartbeat, pumping more blood to pour out of him at an alarming rate.

Mary’s dying, John, pure John, light of his life John at her side. She was shot of course she’s dying. You’ve been shot. Don’t die. She’s saying something, to John, to him. What is she saying? What is she saying? Don’t fall, Sherlock, whatever you do don’t-

Falling to the ground, he rights himself at the last minute...

“John,” He reaches out, Johns a doctor, he’ll do something. His legs want to buckle.

“Don’t,” He growls and snarls and bites like a wounded animal. Don’t fall. One leg goes. Don’t fall. Drip, drip.

Mary’s dead, of course, she is. She got shot. You got shot. But did you die? You might. But you ruined his life so it’s fair game. The other leg starts to go. Vision fading, adding to the pulsing in his head, like a drum beat. One, two, one-

His legs fail. John’s crying, head down at Mary’s side. There’s noise around him. Mary’s dead. John’s by her side. He can feel the bullet in his side. Who’s at his side.

Mycroft.

He can smell the tailor-made suit and the shoe polish a mile away. What is he saying? What is he saying? What is he-?

Stay alive, Sherlock, damn it, stay alive.

Did he think that or did he say that?

John is still at her side. Eye’s open, no he’s not. Where is John? They have John. He’s on a roof and they have John!

His voice won't cooperates.

His eye’s go blank.

John’s at his side.


	2. John's POV

****He saw it in her eyes the moment that bloody woman pulled out that pistol. The look saying,

‘I’m going to save this man, this bloody, brilliant man,’

The look saying,

‘I’m going to make this count,’

He knows his wife, he knows her. He should have stopped her. He could have stopped her. And what’s worse is that she died believing he was perfect.

He wasn’t perfect, he couldn’t save her.

Sherlock could have saved her- Should have saved her. He made a vow. A promise.

Why didn’t he bloody do something?

He’s at her side, and that is where he’ll stay.

She’s speaking now, gasping, trying to breathe. She’s telling him her love. He knows she loves him. She says something to Sherlock and he has the audacity to stand there and not listen to her.

How dare he.

It’s his fault.

He tries to talk to him,

“John,” He says, voice weak and crumbling, just like his life all around him,

“Don’t you dare,” He wants to claw at him, he wishes that Sherlock had been the one who had been shot. At least then he’d still have his wife.

He holds onto her hand for his dear life. He doesn’t care that he’s covered in her blood. He wants to apologise to her. He can’t because Sherlock took away that chance.

His heartbeat pounds in his ears. It drowns out the commotion around him.

Sherlocks not next to him anymore. He looks around, curious as to where he’s run off to.

Sherlock’s on the floor.

There’s blood everywhere.

He can’t breathe.

Sherlock’s been shot.

Damn it, he’s a doctor, he should have seen. Growling, he looks over at them, Sherlock’s on the floor, Mycroft’s holding his hand. He can hear the sirens in the background. They’re nearly there. He sees Sherlock’s grip get tight on Mycroft’s hand. Hope wells in him. There’s a chance-

Sherlock goes limp against the wall.

He howls as he pushes himself forwards towards Sherlock. His grip almost bruising trying to find a pulse.

One, two- He waits, There’s a pulse, fluttering underneath the surface. One, Two. It won't last long, but it’s a start.

Pressing against the wound he rambles at Sherlock. Mostly apologising for his previous thoughts. He wishes he could take them back now, he didn’t really want Sherlock to get shot.

The sirens are closer now, closer and closer yet. They’re still too far away.

He’s too aware that he’s holding his friend together. Holding him front the brink of death. Holding him from the edge of the roof.

The ambulance comes and he is still holding his friend as the blood pools between his fingers.

The heavy weight of guilt settles in the pit of his stomach. This is his fault. He let this happen.

They put him in an ambulance. He joins him. It’s a blur.

The walls of the hospital are crisp and white. It smells too strongly. He crinkles his nose as Mycroft fills out a form. He sit’s by Sherlock bed.

He looks so delicate. So harsh. He looks like he could break at any moment.

They don’t think that he’s going to make it. He only holds his pale hand tighter. The blue veins show through the thin skin.

When Sherlock’s eyes flutter, his heart skips a beat.

“John,”

His heart jolts,

“I’m sorry,”

A tear slips down his cheek, what right does Sherlock have to apologise when he is the one at fault.

“No, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”


End file.
